In Defense of Sir Thomas of Maine
Nonfiction
On July 7th, 1996, I woke up feeling like a million bucks; it was a gorgeous day, and my friends and I were going to Crissy Field in San Francisco for the Vans Warped Tour.
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick.
When I came out of my room, my dad was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over, his face the same I see in the mirror when I’m not feeling my best. It was strange to see my dad looking weak. He was a big man, a mountain with green eyes and freckled knuckles. But has a son’s perception of his father ever been accurate?
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick.
My mom asked me to stick around the house for the day; she was taking my dad to the hospital, and she wanted me home just in case. I told her I couldn’t stay home—I had tickets to a concert.
I hugged my dad and said, “You’ll be fine.”
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick.
He said, “I hope so.”
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick.
They left for the hospital, and I never saw my dad again. He died. My life exploded.
How big is a hole left by the absence of a god?
The consciousness of my great poverty seized me anew, and crushed me. - Knut Hamsun, Hunger.
On July 7th, 1998, I woke up on my friend
’s parents’ couch feeling grateful. He said it was okay to stay the night, and I was stoked not to be outdoors for a change. His mother and father were in their kitchen having breakfast, unaware they had a twenty-one-year-old street urchin crashing on their couch in the next room. I wanted to leave before they noticed me, but I’d bought a new tube of toothpaste, and it was sitting on the counter in their kitchen.“I don’t get how he can afford this expensive toothpaste if he’s homeless,” Mike’s father said.
I wanted to barge in, to tell them I had money because I was unhoused. I no longer had three-quarters of my pay going toward rent. And even with this newfound wealth, I didn’t have enough to pay the deposit and first and last month’s rent on a new place— plus, my credit score was fucked; I’d been relying on credit cards to stay afloat since my dad died and my mom moved out of state. Should my teeth have suffered to better reflect my then housing predicament? I didn’t think so.
When I wasn’t brushing my teeth with gold paste, I worked at a beauty supply store in San Mateo, California. In the morning, being an entrusted key-holder, I’d let myself in, take a truck stop bath, and then crack open a bottle of blue-black or purple Manic Panic hair dye. Before the shop opened, I’d dye my hair and put on eyeliner. The show must go on!
At night, I’d go to Lyon’s, a shitty diner-style restaurant not unlike Denny’s, and order a plate of fries and a Coke. I’d draw silly faces and write song lyrics in my composition notebook, order refill after refill of Coke-a-Cola, and think about robbing banks and convenience stores until the sun came up.
Sometimes, I slept in a hammock in a friend’s front yard.
I crashed a party and slept in a stranger’s room.
I slept in the back of a
’s pickup truck—those drain channels will do a number on your back. (As you can see, Mike was there for me a lot during this time.)I slept in a shed that became an oven when the sun rose.
Sometimes, a lot of times, I didn’t sleep at all. I rode my bike up and down the peninsula until daybreak.
You get used to it, not in the good way, to the extent of the entire world oftentimes feeling like a place where you weren’t invited. If you’ve been here, you know. If not, must be nice. - Barbra Kingsolver, Demon Copperhead.
Cops: “We had a report that someone dressed just like you stole a bike exactly like the one you’re riding. What do you have to say about that?”
Me: “If this is their bike, what’s her name?”
Her name was Whosiewhatsy; she was a blue and white Schwinn cruiser I rode everywhere. I don’t think I would have survived this time of my life without her.
Once or twice a month, I’d stay in a shitty motel that had one of those weird beds that’ll shake you for a coin. I’d park Whosiewhatsy at the foot of the vibrating bed and then take an hour-long shower. Nothing is more rejuvenating than a shower after a few weeks without one. I’d step out of that steamy rented bathroom with a wonderful feeling: Hope. Then I’d sleep from 6 PM to 11 AM. After checkout, I’d be back at it, refreshed and ready for the world, riding around town on Whosiewhatsy, my steed, my pal. I can still hear the sound of her fender rattling…
After three and a half months of being unhoused, I’d saved just enough money to fly to England. My homies in the band Slobber were going on tour there, and this seemed like an excellent opportunity for not only a month of couch surfing but maybe a new life. Maybe I’d stay.
I quit my job at the beauty shop (Oh boy, past Sean, that seems risky) and told the band I was joining them on tour to be their roadie, whether they wanted me or not, which I don’t think all of them did. They probably regretted me being there even more when I showed up sick, sleeping on the floor of their host’s London flat for the next three days.
The first couple weeks were a blast, but by the time we arrived by bus in Liverpool, I was flat broke, so I bid adieu to the band. They went on to Scotland, and I stayed put, having met some lovely Liverpudlians who fed and housed me for the remaining two weeks until my return flight. I lived an entire life in those two weeks.
I nearly stayed in Liverpool, and on the flight back, I’d already started to regret my decision to return to the Bay Area.
When the band and I landed in California, my friends were itching to get home to their own spaces. They sped toward baggage claim, but I hung back—I had no idea where I was going to sleep, had no money or a job, and I was still sick.
Life had pummeled me: the death of my dad, my family moving away, not having a stable home or enough money to relax, I had thousands of dollars in medical debt, thousands of dollars in credit card debt—fucking years of such sadness!—and I felt wholly defeated. Life. Was. Bleak.
But at SFO, the concourse was bright and the temperature perfect. I thought about staying at the airport for the rest of my days. Sure, I’d need to find food, but my shelter problems would be solved.
My friend Melanie, who’d also joined the band on tour, approached and, as if it were an afterthought, said, “Oh, I talked to my mom, and she said that you can move in with her and her boyfriend while you look for a place.”
I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying to me. “What?”
“My mom said you can live with them. They have an empty room in their apartment.”
“Oh, great,” I said.
Externally, I probably seemed real cool about the entire thing, but inside, and even now, I’m dumbfounded by this sudden luck. It was as if the universe was like, “Alright, he’s had enough—let’s move on to the next poor sucker!” I still don’t know why my friend’s mom and her mom’s boyfriend agreed to this—I’d never even met them.
The room was small and sparse, with only a stained futon mattress folded in half on a tan carpet, an old dresser, and a charity shop lamp made out of wood with a carved fisherman looking like he might step down off the base of the lamp and take his leave at any moment. I set my backpack on the floor and closed the door.
I stood there a long while, just staring at my new space. The air was stale, and the afternoon sun seeped through the blinds like gold liquid—it wanted to spill into the room and drench everything, but I kept the blinds shut. I kept those blinds shut for a long time.
I rolled out the mattress, sat down, and read The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde.
Later, I brushed my teeth with my expensive toothpaste. King shit.
Thanks for reading!
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"How big is a hole left by the absence of a god?"
C'mon my man.